


Scattered

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy <i>really</i> doesn't like transporters.  This could take place in either the TOS or Reboot universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scattered

"Welcome back aboard, Doctor McCoy," Scott said cheerfully when the man finally appeared on the transporter pad. "Sorry about the rough landing there. I'll have to run some diagnostics, see what created that interference. Could be a—"

He looked up then and his voice died abruptly. McCoy was standing there in one piece, but he was white as a sheet and, as Scott's smile of welcome faded, his knees began to buckle.

Scott made it to him in time, but only just, and as he lowered the doctor to the floor, he thought, _Transporter shock. Helluva way to end a week of shore leave._ He'd seen his share of it, of course, though he was hard pressed to remember the last time he'd seen a man so afflicted. McCoy was so far beyond pale, his skin was practically _translucent_, a thing Scott would not have thought possible, and he was trembling violently.

"'Ere now," he said, putting an arm around McCoy's shoulders and keeping it there, even as the man shook his head, his brown hair spilling over his brow, his hands batting feebly in protest of Scott's solicitude. "'Ere, now. Keep yer 'ead down. Slow, deep breaths. That's it," he continued soothingly, even though McCoy was actually trying to _lift_ his head, and his breaths were quick and shallow.

"Fine," he panted. "M'fine. Don't need a goddamn—"

He vomited all over himself and Scott.

Scott raised his eyebrows. "I think I know what you need, Doctor McCoy. Apart from a clean shirt."

Catching hold of McCoy's hand, still gripping him tightly by the shoulders, Scott got him awkwardly to his feet and started for the door. McCoy's skin was clammy, his heartbeat erratic even through the multiple layers of his uniform.

"Fucking. Hate. Those. Things," he grunted. "And they fucking hate me."

"Ye _did_ make it back," Scott pointed out, perhaps too brightly.

McCoy threw up again.

*

Scott brought McCoy back to his own quarters, the doctor muttering the entire way – when he wasn't dry heaving – that he'd be fine, he could take care of himself, goddammit, he just wanted to be _alone_.

"Sa pretend I'm no' there," Scott snapped when they finally made it and he had to shoulder McCoy roughly across the threshold. "Imagine yer still on Risa, and I'm some bonny lass ye've picked up in a pub, aye?"

McCoy cocked an eyebrow. "No offense, Scotty, but I'd have to be drunk out of my fucking skull, to even begin—"

Scott shoved him onto the bed and he shut up. In fact, he didn't speak again – though he glared, _oh_ did he glare – while Scott peeled off his soiled shirt and tucked his own cotton robe around his bowed shoulders.

"There now," said Scott, taking the opportunity to change his own shirt quickly. "Feelin' better?"

"Mister Scott," said McCoy slowly, "I almost had my atoms scattered across—" As if in sudden pain, he squeezed his eyes shut and bowed over his knees, dropping his head into his hand.

"As if I woulda let that happen," Scott said, coming back to pat his shoulder.

McCoy's voice was muffled. "You won't tell anyone?"

"That there was some interference with the transporter? Aye, the captain'll be notified and it'll go in the logs. That you were taken ill? Don't worry, Doctor McCoy. Yer secret's safe with me. Now. How about I fix ye a drink? Might no' be the best thing for an empty stomach, but—"

He started to move away. With surprising strength and speed, McCoy reached out and grasped his hand. He squeezed it tightly, his blunt fingernails digging into Scott's skin.

"So… ye don't want te be left alone?"

"Dammit," McCoy said, "I could _feel_ myself breaking apart, every atom going in a different goddamn direction. And it was _cold_…"

It was all in his head, Scott knew, but he realized his saying so wouldn't do a bit of good. "Och, well," he said, brushing some of the hair out of McCoy's eyes, ignoring the fact that his fingers were getting bruised, "if it makes ye feel any better, I used to be downright terrified o' doctors. Bad experience as a wee lad."

"That's different."

"I know. But my point is – all sorts o' things can happen to a man out 'ere in the black, an'—"

"If you try to tell me not to be afraid, so help me, Scotty—"

"Be afraid," Scott said with a shrug. "Just don' let yer fear paralyze ye. We've got to rely on each other. If I'm shot full o' holes, or electrocuted, or what have ye, I trust ye to patch me up good an' right. And ye can trust me to get ye back home. _All_ of ye. Every atom. Aye?"

McCoy glanced up and gave him a very wan smile. "Aye."

8/1/09


End file.
